


Guardian Gay-ngel

by Amuly



Category: Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gay Panic, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Male Friendship, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexual Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 08:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5658718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuly/pseuds/Amuly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Jack Monroe is trying to find his way through the garish eighties and nineties, he finds guidance and companionship in Steve's oldest friend: Arnie Roth. Meanwhile, Arnie is struggling with the death of his "roommate" Michael. Jack's clingy presence is exactly what he needs to bring him through this period of mourning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guardian Gay-ngel

**Author's Note:**

> This is an Arnie-never-dies fix-it fic. Well, and a "Jack doesn't end up in cryo again after the Nomad series" and "Dennis is totally fine and not king of the hobos" but those two are a given, haha.

Arnie's door swung open to reveal the middle-aged, portly man himself, cocking his head in slight befuddlement at the man before him.

“Jack, right? Steve's friend.”

Jack smiled lopsidedly and nodded. “Yeah, uh. Mind if I come in?”

Arnie shrugged at stepped aside. Jack noticed he had shadows under his eyes and his clothes seemed to fit him more loosely than they should. Steve had told him something about the roommate, Michael, when he explained who Arnie was. Jack made an effort to smile broader, patting Arnie's arm as he passed him.

“Thanks. Um, sorry, I don't mean to bother you, but Steve suggested I come over.”

Arnie seemed even more confused by that, but he led Jack into his apartment. “Oh. Well, heck, I don't suppose I mind the company. The place has been... quiet...”

Arnie trailed off. Jack grimaced and patted Arnie again. He was no good at this kind of thing: never learned it from his folks before they died, and definitely didn't get it from Burnside.

“Steve mentioned it. But, listen: I came over because Steve told me who you were. How you know him.”

Arnie's eyes narrowed as he walked toward his kitchen. Jack trailed after him, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. “Oh...?

Arnie circled around the kitchen counter, leaving Jack on the other side of it. Jack stuck his hand out to him and tilted his head. “Allow me to introduce myself: Jack Monroe, AKA Bucky circa nineteen fifty-four.”

The frown lines in Arnie's face smoothed out, replaced by a sudden rush of understanding. “Oh... Oh! Wait... Didn't you and that fake Cap attack Steve a while back?”

Jack dropped his hand, shamefaced. “We did. But we were all messed up in the head. Our serum wasn't the good stuff: not the stuff Steve got. It made us paranoid, confused. Back in the fifties we started going after all these folks we thought were commie bastards, even though they weren't. They put us on ice and just unfroze us recently. That's when we went after Steve and Sam. It was...” Jack rubbed his head. “I don't really remember it straight. I mean, I do, but. It feels like someone else, a lot of it.”

Arnie smiled at Jack and stuck his hand out belatedly. Jack took it, a rush of warmth hurrying through him at the simple gesture. “Arnie Roth. Friend of Steve Rogers, circa nineteen thirty.”

Jack laughed and Arnie shook his head.

“Well I have to say: I can see why Steve told you to come around. Two old-timers to keep each other company, right?”

“You're no old-timer!” Jack insisted. “And I got a couple good years left in me.”

“More than most men from the forties, I'll give you that,” Arnie chuckled. “So? How's the future treating you? The eighties scare the McCarthy out of you yet?”

Jack shuddered, fingers tightening around Arnie’s counter. “I don't know about all _that_. The music’s awful, and the clothes are ugly. Other things are different, but I guess a lot of that is good stuff, like no more segregation, you know. And gals are out doing all _sorts_ of crazy things, which I suppose is good from their side.”

Arnie laughed and threw his thumb over his shoulder. “What about food? You been eating all the fancy new junk food you can get your hands on?”

Jack’s eyes lit up. “Actually, not so much. Steve's kind of a healthy eater, you know.”

Arnie shook his head as he busied himself with gathering snacks. “Well, we can't have that. Let me get you a sampling of what I have, and next time I'm at the supermarket I'll make sure to buy all the kooky new junk I can think of. What else… you'll have to come over one evening and I'll introduce you to all my favorite TV. How do you like the color picture?”

“It's amazing!” Jack gushed. “Though, uh. Sometimes it's a little too real. Like at the movies.”

Arnie laughed as he came back with a half-dozen bowls filled with all sorts of unhealthy snacks. And was that drink bright green? What the heck kind of future drink was that!

“Is there anything you want to do, Jack?”

“Well, do people still play Old Maid?” Jack held up a deck of cards and waggled them at Arnie.

Arnie laughed, a real laugh: eyes crinkling at mouth wide. Humorlessly he waved an arm around his apartment. “Pretty sure I've been playing that one for a while, Jack. But sure, I guess I can play the card version, too.”

Jack grinned as they got some snacks together and sat down at Arnie's kitchen table. For just about the only time since he wound up in the nineteen eighties, Jack felt relaxed.

* * *

Arnie was laughing hard, slapping at Jack's leg as Jack played keep-away with the remote control.

“No, no! Jack, change it, change it or _stop_ -”

“What? You don't like my running commentary?” Turning the remote on the TV, Jack flicked the TV volume up. As the TV blared into Arnie's living room: “ _And now we see the Princess entering Westminster in her gown. The tradition-_ ”

“'Is for her to now stand on her head and waggle her million dollar shoes for the royal guard to examine-'” Jack continued for the announcer in a mock-British accent. “'Ah, yes, now we see the Princess rounding the roundabout, which is in the middle of a church for some reason. It is traditional, of course. Oh, look at that, she navigated it beautifully. No fender-benders here. Good thing, because the royal arse _must_ be perfectly preserved'-”

“Jack!” Arnie barked, though it was more of a gasp between wheezing, laughing breaths.

Jack rolled his eyes good-naturedly and tossed the remote back to Arnie. “I'm sorry, was I interrupting your princess show?”

“It's international politics!” Arnie insisted as he snatched the remote close to his chest. His eyes sparkled way too dreamily as he turned back to the TV for his excuse to be even the slightest bit believable.

“I don't believe Michael would have put up with this,” Jack commented as he lolled to one side on the couch. “I mean, he seems like a normal kind of guy, in all the pictures of him. I bet he'd be watching football or whatever else is on right now.”

It took a couple beats of silence for Jack to realize he'd gone and put his big foot straight into his mouth. He turned to see Arnie staring steadfastly at the TV, jaw clenched and eyes glistening.

“Aw, shoot, Arnie: I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... he was a good friend, huh?”

Arnie was silent for a few more moments, throat working. Finally he nodded, a smile forced at the corner of his mouth before it dropped away. “Yes. Yes, he was.” Arnie cleared his throat loudly and nodded at the TV. “And he would have loved this, just so you know. Before he... passed... we were talking about it. Planning on watching it together.”

Jack shifted on the couch, suddenly aware he was intruding on something meaningful. He glanced at one of the pictures on the mantle, over the TV. Michael had his arms wrapped around Arnie and was smiling hard. Arnie's expression was more subdued, but no less joyfully happy.

The gears in Jack's head clicked together very, very slowly. His throat felt dry. Um. Oh.

No. He wasn't thinking straight. Arnie was such a good guy. This future-time was just messing with him. Jack forced a smile and turned to Arnie. He deliberately patted Arnie's shoulder. He was wrong, Arnie wasn't... Jack squeezed Arnie's shoulder and smiled some more. “Hey. I'm sure Mike is happy you got to watch it anyways. Now hows about I fix you a drink? Come on: something girly for this girly trash you're making me watch.”

Arnie's face flickered into another attempt at a smile, and he nodded. “Sure, Jack. Alright. Something bright pink, okay?”

“You got it.”

* * *

“Hey, Steve: I was trying to ask you earlier, about Arnie...”

Steve grinned as he shucked off his red boots. “Yeah? You know, I think you're doing him a world of good, visiting with him. He's getting better every day with you coming round, after Mike-”

“That's what I wanted to ask,” Jack cut in. He fumbled with his Nomad gloves, twisting them in his hands. “I mean, I... He talks about him, a lot. Michael. And, I mean...” Jack stared up at the ceiling, at the closet, at everywhere except Steve. Aw, hell: Jack was half-naked, stripping out of his costume. Should he put a shirt on for this conversation? Dang it.

“I mean. I heard things. About nowadays. And Arnie... and Michael...”

Jack counted to five as he stared at a door handle.

“There's pictures. In Arnie's place. Him and Michael. They're...”

Jack's heart hammered in his chest. He just had to spit it out. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Steve would laugh at him. Maybe Steve would get mad for him asking that about his friend. Arnie wouldn't be that way. Arnie was a good guy. Steve would get mad Jack could ever think such a horrible thing.

“Jack. Son. Look at me.”

Jack's ears were aflame as he ripped his eyes away from a patch of carpet. Steve had managed to finish changing and was in a blue sweater and jeans. He looked serious, but not angry. No, he wouldn't get angry. Even if Jack was thinking such mean things about his oldest friend.

“I'm not sure if it's my place to say, but Arnie wasn't hiding it. Him and Michael were homosexuals, together.”

Jack hit the bed. All the air burst from his lungs and his head spun.

“Don't... Don't say...” Jack shook his head hard. “How can you say that! Arnie's your friend!”

Jack couldn't look up and face Steve, but he could hear the frown in his voice. “That's right, Jack. He is. _And_ he's a homosexual.”

Jack kept thinking about all the stuff he had touched in Arnie's apartment. He had used his bathroom. He had eaten his food, drunk from his glasses. He had touched Arnie, a hundred times! Pats on the arm and shoulder, fingers brushing as they switched cards—Jack's skin crawled.

“Jack.” Steve's voice was a whip-crack. Jack's head shot up, eyes meeting steely blue. Steve was staring down at him with a look that could turn your stomach to jelly in an instant. “Is this going to be a problem?”

“...Isn't it?” Jack managed to squeak out after a moment.

“Not on my end. Not on Arnie's.” The unspoken 'how about yours?' hung between them. Jack felt ashamed, even though by all reason he shouldn't. Arnie was the homosexual. Arnie was the one that was wrong.

And yet...

“It's... I didn't think it was... Steve, I mean. It's not... natural?”

“Jack.”

Jack winced. “But... But you have to... It's not like it's normal.”

Steve sighed and ran a hand through his hair. At least he seemed less angry. A little.

“Jack, son. I... I don't know, maybe I should let Arnie take a crack at this. I'm not one who knows any of the right arguments or... but, Jack: do you know Arnie's a good man.”

Jack figured saying “before this” would probably get him socked right in the jaw, so he bit his tongue and eventually managed: “Seems to be.”

“And you like him, don't you? Your visits have been doing _you_ plenty of good too, don't pretend otherwise.”

Well, sure: before Jack knew about this. Jack dropped his gaze from Steve's, trying to find the words. “I... But I didn't know... I mean, he's been lying this whole time!”

“Has he?”

“Lies of omission, at least. He talks about Michael all the time, but he never said-!”

Steve sighed and joined Jack on his bed. Jack moved down, until he was just about falling off the edge. Given the conversation, he didn't feel so comfortable sharing a bed with another man. Even if it was just Steve, and they were just sitting.

“What more would you have expected him to say, though? I'm sure he spoke about how much Michael meant to him. How much he missed him. How much they loved each other.”

“But it wasn't...” Jack struggled to find the argument. He always felt so dumb next to Steve, like eager little sidekick Bucky, young and inexperienced next to this George Washington of wisdom. “It was all out of context! Now that I know!”

“But you suspected. So he must have said some things that made you think.”

Jack hesitated. He had suspected. The way Arnie had spoken about Michael, the pictures of them hugging, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, heads bent together, two lives written out on every surface of their apartment. Jack squirmed, gloves creaking as he twisted them harder.

“Arnie's not hiding it, is he? He thinks it's okay. He thought... How could he think I would be okay? Knowing?”

Steve smiled again, for the first time since Jack started this whole awful conversation. His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach out and pat Jack on the shoulder, but he held back. Jack was grateful, for once, to not have Steve's hand on him. “I think that's the smartest thing you've said so far.”

“But he knows when I'm from! He lived through it, he must know what I'd think-!”

Jack stopped. A tightness engulfed his heart.

“Oh, geeze. Arnie lived through it. Because I guess he's always been a... that way, hasn't he? And he lived with it. All through the fifties.”

Jack's face reddened. Suddenly he felt so angry. Angry at his government, at McCarthy, at Burnside. Angry at who he had been, at what people had said was right, what he was supposed to do, to be, to think.

“It wasn't right, was it? It's just like all that other crap they put in my head. Like with the blacks and commies and peaceniks. They taught us it, they told us what was right. But it wasn't, was it? It was just them trying to... to hurt anyone who was different. To stop them.”

Steve sighed. “I honestly don't know. I wasn't around for it. They... Everyone tries to do what they think is right. Well, most everyone. I think our government was trying to do what was right. But they sure had a bad handle on what that meant.”

“I have to talk to Arnie. Tell him I'm sorry.”

Steve actually laughed at that, and Jack felt a little better. “Sorry for what? Being his friend all these months?”

“For thinking all this! For...” Jack shook his head, trying to sort out the nausea in his gut from the heady feeling in his skull. “I still feel... It still seems wrong to me. Unnatural. Arnie's a good guy, you're right: I know he is. But it's all confused inside me.”

Steve nodded as he pushed himself to his feet. He smiled down at Jack. “I think even Arnie himself would tell you that's alright. Feelings are slower to change than thoughts: they don't respond to reason right away. And he knows where you come from, how you were raised. As long as you keep working, keep trying to think the right things, well: I think that's what being a good man is all about.”

Jack frowned, but didn't say anything. Seemed to him like being a good man required more than that. Like actually _doing_ the right thing, not just _thinking_ it. Which meant he had some doing to get done.

* * *

“Tell me about Michael.”

Across the breakfast counter, Arnie froze, milk jug in one hand, glass in the other. His expression cracked: that horrible, sad crumbling Jack had seen once or twice before. Jack scrambled to fix his blunder.

“I mean, if you want to. I just meant...” Jack rubbed the back of his head. Oh, geeze. He was always messing these things up. “I'm always going on about my stuff. Burnside, or Steve, the fifties, the eighties... I just figured I'd try not to be so rude, today. Ask you about stuff you... liked.”

“Oh, I don't...” Arnie's fingers twitched towards a framed photo on his coffee table, his eyes lingering on Michael's face. Jack swallowed. Now that he knew, he saw it everywhere. The way Arnie looked at those pictures.

“How about one story? Something dumb, you know. Like, how'd you guys meet, when'd he move in...”

Arnie's expression softened and something like a smile creased his eyes. “Oh, well. He always told it better than me, but we had a terrible first meeting. Everything that could go wrong did. Old Murphy's Law Arnie, that's me. Oh, dear, I wish he was here to tell it, he always said it so much better. Well: I was running late to work, of course. A train crash, actually, so the city was a _nightmare_. Michael, meanwhile, was just coming _off_ his shift—oh, and it was _pouring_ out, freezing rain, one of those terrible November days, you know, and me without an umbrella...”

* * *

Jack pushed his way into Arnie's apartment nearly before he opened the door. “Jack?” His head was buzzing, his skin on fire, over sensitive and wrong and mixed-up in a thousand misfired ways, just like—no, _worse_ than when the serum went bad on him, more confused than even those foggy times. Because now it was crystal clear, his memories, his... _feelings_.

“How'd you know?”

Arnie frowned, eyes tracking Jack as he paced around Arnie's apartment. It was a nice-sized place, but now it just seemed too small. Jack wanted to be out, running, punching, hurting. But out there didn't have what was in here, which was someone Jack could trust. Someone like Arnie.

“Know what?”

Snatching up a photo—there were hundreds of them, or felt like hundreds, everywhere Jack looked in the damn apartment—Jack shoved it in Arnie's face. “How'd you know?”

Gently Arnie took the photo from Jack, cradling it in his hands. “I told you how we met, how we-”

“Not that. Before. How'd you know you were like that? When did it happen?”

Arnie's mouth formed a silent “ _oh_.” Without saying anything he crossed the room and set the photo back in its proper place, taking the time to align it neatly on the shelf. He looked back at Jack with something close to pity in his eyes. Jack stomped away, only to turn around when he reached a wall again.

“Jack... Did...”

“When did it _happen_?”

“It never _happened_ , Jack,” Arnie explained, voice soft. “I was always this way. But when the other boys started noticing girls, I started noticing... not that.”

“Well I _didn't_!” Jack shouted, and then stopped. Fuck. Jack pressed his hands to his eyes, breathing deep. It wasn't anything, the dream didn't mean anything, it was just... it was this _time_ , it was this _place_ , it was this foreign country he could never, ever _leave_.

“Jack.”

“It's _your_ -!” Jack stopped himself, mid-rant. Dropped his hands to see Arnie looking at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Jack shook his head and swallowed. “No. That's not right. I didn't mean...”

“I know.”

“I just... I'm just confused, and...”

“Jack: I know. About you.”

Jack stared. Shook his head. “No you don't.”

Arnie winced, then tried for a smile. It fell flat. “I... I always had a sense, Jack. If you think you might... I'm not surprised, Jack. It always seemed that way to me.”

“I'm _not_ \- You don't _know-_ ” Jack breathed through his nose. He wanted to sock Arnie right in the jaw- no. No, he didn't want to do that. Not to Arnie. He wanted to sock _himself_ right in the jaw, more accurately. Or that damn _dream_ , that dream about short hair and big shoulders and strong arms...

“I have to go.”

“Jack-”

“I'll talk to you later.” Jack raced for the door.

“I'm always here for you, Jack! If you need it. My door's always open. Don't think you have to go through this alone.”

Jack wrapped his hand on Arnie's doorknob and breathed.

“We all had to go through it, at some point. And if you want to come back and just... watch TV. You're always welcome here.”

Jack shut the door softly on his way out.

* * *

Jack slid the magazine upside-down across the counter to the cashier. The turban guy (Sikh? Was that what Steve had told him?) didn't even blink as he rung it up and stuffed it in a brown paper bag. Jack pushed his money at him—he'd counted out the exact change, tax included, earlier—and snatched the bag out of his hands.

Jack had planned this. Spent a month planning it. The shop was about as far across town as you could get without exiting the borough—and Jack had actually considered hiking up to Manhattan or Queens instead, but thought maybe that was taking it too far. As it was, Jack managed to change his sweater once and buy a new hat on the way back, taking as circuitous a route as he could without going in a complete circle.

“Hey, Jack. Getting in late.”

“Had a few errands, but I'm exhausted, I'll see you later!” Jack nearly shouted at Steve in a rush. He didn't stick around to see Steve's flabbergasted expression, just ducked into his room and locked the door.

Breathing hard, Jack pulled the magazine from under his shirt, cursing every crinkle of the brown paper bag. Checking the lock on his door one more time, Jack quickly tugged the magazine out of the bag and disposed of it. As luck would have it, he'd pulled the magazine out right-side up. Jack stared at the pictures on the front. At the men on the front.

Maybe he wouldn't like it. Maybe this was all just... idle curiosity, born of this decadent age where you could try everything once, twice if you felt like it. Jack tucked the magazine under his mattress and pulled out a normal book. Later. When Steve was out with Bernie.

That night Jack listened to the apartment door close, heart pounding in his chest. He waited five, ten minutes. Then, very, very slowly, he leaned over and pulled the magazine out from under his mattress.

At first, there wasn't much to it. Jack flipped through page after page of skinny, hairless boy, expecting... _something_ to start happening. But nothing really did. No more than any lazy day spent watching the TV or reading a book.

Maybe he _didn't_ like it? He certainly didn't like the look of all these... _boys_. Younger than him, big innocent eyes staring up at him like they were half-scared. Jack didn't like that much at all. Frowning to himself, Jack flipped through a few more pages. Maybe it really was just a curiosity thing, something attractive because it was forbidden...

On the next page was something much different. Unlike all the smooth, trembling boys, there was a _man_ in the center of this page. Bearded, thick chest hair, biceps the size of his head. Jack swallowed thickly. He was holding one of those boys, holding the back of his head, blond hair wrapped around thick, sausage-like fingers.

Oh. Well. Okay.

Late that night, Jack stared at his ceiling, thinking about Steve, and Arnie, and Arnie's lost Michael. About how Arnie had at least gotten what he wanted for a while. About how Jack always longed to be around someone bigger than him, stronger than him, telling him that he'd done a good job. It was why he'd come to Steve for a partnership in the first place. He wasn't too dense to figure _that_ out. Well. Not anymore.

But Steve wasn't like that. Steve had Bernie, and Arnie had Michael, once, while Jack had... no one. But what was he supposed to do? Go out to one of those bars that he heard existed, pick someone up? But they all just wanted... Well, no. Obviously not. Arnie wasn't like that, and apparently neither was Michael. But they were old. Old like Jack, and Jack laughed bitterly in his dark room.

Maybe it'd be easier to be with a girl. He'd never even noticed anything wrong with girls until the damn eighties had told him he'd had a choice. Maybe if he just forgot about it, he'd be able to find a nice girl. Maybe.

* * *

“How did you know Michael was… I mean. How'd the both of you… Figure out each other?”

Arnie looked up over his hand, eyes glimmering with unexpected pain. Jack drew back, not intending to have caused that.

“Oh, no, I mean. I'm sorry, we don't have to-”

“No, no.” Arnie’s hands trembled as he drew a card out and set it on the table. “It's alright. And who else are you going to ask about that, right?” He smiled blandly and sat back in his chair. His gaze was miles away. “There's all sorts of signals, supposedly. Handkerchief in your back pocket, right for bottom, left for top, light blue if you want oral sex, dark blue for…” Arnie stopped, taking in Jack’s blush and the way he had gone completely still. “But that’s not how it was for us. We just… figured it out. Like everyone does. You smile too long, his gaze lingers, your hands brush…” Arnie smiled softly, and Jack felt himself relax. “Just the way of things. You'll get it. But be ready to skeddadle, if you read things wrong.”

Jack grimaced. “Lot of experience with that yourself?”

Arnie shrugged. “Less than I might have, honestly. You hear things, such terrible stories. I've certainly been one of the luckier ones, in my day.”

“It's not right,” Jack growled. He threw down a card, not caring what it was. “People shouldn't have to be afraid, just to talk to people, to try and… and find a damn date. I mean, people like me, we’re always used to a fight, but people like you…” Jack looked up to find Arnie chuckling under his breath. Jack frowned. “Hey, what? What'd I do?”

“Oh don't worry, Jackie dear. It's just: that's quite the change of opinion, I noticed. From when you first started coming around here.”

Jack flushed and glared down at his cards. “Well. It wasn't right then, either. I just didn't know it.”

Arnie’s hand covered his, startling Jack into looking up. Arnie was smiling kindly at him. “And I'm sure you'll find someone, Jack. There's someone out there for all of us.”

Jack grimaced and slid his hand away from Arnie’s. “Well. Hm. Okay.” Jack glanced out Arnie’s window before nodding his head back at the table. “Are you going to throw or what?”

* * *

Jack batted Dennis’ hand away, anger flaring up inside him. He wasn't sure why this guy rubbed him the wrong way, but he did. Probably because he just showed up one day and Steve let him play at hero: no training, no history, no… no trauma or pain! Jack had to go through so much shit, was _still_ stuck in the shit, and Dennis just waltzed in with his big mansion and his shaved head and his big, augmented arms…

Jack clung tight to Priscilla and hurried her inside, away from Dennis.

That evening they all sat around Dennis’ dinner table, eating Chinese takeaway. Jack glared at Dennis, trying to size him up. He was so focused on this dork-man that it took Sam flicking his ear and saying “Yo! Jackie! You here?” for him to jerk back to himself.

Jack blinked and shook his head. “What? Sorry, Sam. What were… uh…” Jack tried to think back, but he'd lost the thread of conversation maybe ten minutes ago.

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes. “What the hell, man. You going to stop making googly-eyes and Dennis long enough to hear me?”

Jacks face flamed. Before he knew what he was doing he slammed his fist on the table and jumped up. “I am _not_ -” Jack’s eyes caught Dennis’. He was smiling, though there was a little crease of worry between his eyebrows. “Anyone ever tell you you talk to much, Sam?”

“Not as much as they probably tell you, Jack.” Sam shot back. “You got a problem with Dennis? Might as well spill it all here, before we hit the road. We don't need any distractions while we're looking for Cap.”

“No distractions. We don't have to be linking arms and skipping down the yellow brick road, do we?”

Sam hesitated, glancing between Dennis and Jack. Finally he shrugged. “I guess not.”

Jack kept his eyes firmly on his lo-mien. He could feel Dennis watching him, see his arms flexing out of his peripheral with every bite he took.

Jack stood outside Dennis' bedroom door for ten minutes that night, fist raised to knock. He finally managed to rip himself away.

How were you supposed to know, anyway? And it wasn't like Jack could “skedaddle” away from someone he was supposed to be on the road with for the next who knows how long. Better to just leave it. Chances were, Dennis wasn't like that anyway. There weren't that many of Jack's types out there, anyway. There couldn't be.

* * *

“You know, I've never met Arnie. Would I like him?”

Jack shot up in his seat at Dennis' innocent inquiry. “No!” he shouted.

Steve and Sam looked back at Jack, utter confusion on both their faces. Dennis', too, but Jack wasn't look at that dork.

“Jack...” Steve started.

Jack scowled to hide his embarrassment and slouched down in his fancy, private-jet chair. “I mean... Not like you're going to be around long enough to meet him. And what are you doing mooching off our friends? What, can't make your own?”

“Jack.”

Jack pressed his head to the window and ignored the disappointment in Steve's tone. “Whatever, wake me when we get to Vegas.”

Jack squeezed his eyes shut and willed his heart to stop pounding so loud. If Dennis talked to Arnie, if Arnie let on anything about Jack, well, Jack would never hear the end of it. The Dork-Man couldn't know. Could never know.

Jack wrapped his arms around himself and shushed his own mind. It'd be okay. Dennis wouldn't know. Arnie wouldn't tell him, even if the two ever did meet. Arnie was his friend first. Dennis would never know.

* * *

Jack rubbed the back of his head when the door opened. Arnie tottered out, squinting up at Jack in the glare of the Florida sun. “Jack? I didn't know you were in town. And who's this? Wait, no, come in and let me look: I think I recognize you.”

Jack ducked through the door to Arnie's condo, the other man following behind him. As the door shut Arnie hummed in recognition. “Oh, yes: I know you. Demolition Man, wasn't it? You helped out Steve a few times, he told me.”

Dennis beamed as he stepped farther into Arnie's apartment. “Oh, I don't even know if I helped, really. Just tagged along.”

“Nonsense. Steve doesn't lie, and Steve told me you helped. Ergo...”

“Don't give Dennis more credit than he deserves: he'll decide to take up the spandex again,” Jack grumbled. He peered around Arnie's house as they followed him in, checking out the decor and knick-knacks. There was a picture of Michael on the mantle, place of honor. Jack lingered on it as they walked farther in.

“Now Jack: what brings you down here? Bad guys running amok or did you just need a tan?”

Jack smiled weakly, stomach knotting. But he wasn't a bigoted kid anymore, or a confused young man. Reaching out, he took Dennis' hand and pulled him forward so they were shoulder-to-shoulder. He smiled at Arnie.

“I wanted you to know: Dennis and I, we're. Uh. Stepping out. Er. We go on dates.”

Dennis, in his usual abundant enthusiasm, stepped in for Jack. “I voted we go with 'partners' because it sounds like we're an unstoppable superhero team, but Jack wants to call me his 'boyfriend'-”

“No I don't!” Jack squeaked. Only a couple times. Usually when they were in bed and Jack's head was too sappy from all the kissing.

“-and 'lover' is a little corny for both our tastes-”

Jack flushed from the top of his skull down to his toes, he was sure of it. Arnie was looking between them, smile growing bigger with every dumb word spilling from Dennis' mouth.

“-meanwhile, Jack keeps calling it 'going steady' and I keep asking him: does he want to tell the world he's from the fifties, because that would do it.”

Suddenly Arnie rushed forward, scooping Jack up in a hug. Or as best he could from somewhere around pectoral-height. Jack let go of Dennis' hand in shock, reaching up automatically to hug Arnie back. When Arnie pulled away there were tears glistening in his eyes. Jack's throat locked up.

“I'm just. Happy for you, Jackie. So, so happy for you.”

“I'm sorry,” Jack said, even though that wasn't what he meant to say at all.

“Jack: whatever for?”

“I'm sorry about Michael,” Jack spilled out in a rush, brain half a step behind his mouth the entire way. “I never said it, because I didn't know how, back then. But I'm sorry that happened to you. I'm sorry you lost him.”

Arnie shook his head. “Jack-”

“And I'm sorry that I thought you were bad. When I first figured it out. It took me so long to accept it, and. I was such a jerk.”

Arnie sighed a deep, sad sigh. He stepped forward to pat Jack's cheek, and Jack realized he was crying with Arnie. “I'm sorry you ever thought that, Jack. But not for me: for you. I'm sorry you ever had to feel that way about yourself.”

“You lived it!” Jack spluttered. “You had to live it, all that time, and you still came out the other side...”

“So did you,” Arnie pointed out, and a hiccuping little sob escaped Jack. Arnie smiled and dropped his hand. “Come on. Let me make you boys some iced tea. It's all the rage down here. And Dennis can tell me all about your wedding plans.”

“Our-” Jack started, too surprised to be sad anymore.

Dennis whistled innocently and Jack's head whipped around to his.

“Dennis.”

“I was thinking matching red vests, but with accents of blue for yours and yellow for mine so it'd be like our costumes. Don't say no until you've seen the designs.”

Arnie's knowing laughter floated back from his kitchen as Jack gawped at Dennis like a beached fish. “Could see it in that boy's eyes! Come on, come on: sit! You damn heroes always take up so much space. Let me get you something to eat, too. Are we eating healthy or not-so-much?”

Dennis smiled at Jack as they seated themselves at Arnie's kitchen table. Hand shaking just a smidge, Jack reached over and clasped Dennis'. Dennis squeezed back, smile big, eyes glinting. Jack breathed, and let Arnie's patter wash over him. Here he was, a million miles from where he started. And things were just about okay.

 


End file.
